


A Very Brief Dubiously Canon Compliant Theory of Montgomery's Introduction to Bad Science

by montereygay



Category: The Island of Doctor Moreau - H. G. Wells
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, Trans Doctor Moreau, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montereygay/pseuds/montereygay
Summary: Having been suddenly presented with a second opportunity to do - something, anything, Montgomery considers a series of options.The first of which is to walk away - the reasonable, probably best-advised course of action when faced with a complete stranger, even an older, unreasonably attractive one with a very specific interest in the cutting edges of medical surgery and transplantation grafting. He may yet see him again, anyway, and making an ass of himself (a distinct possibility) is a fear that makes itself known quite vocally.The other, more tempting option, is the same that occurred to him in the lecture hall: to approach him, make conversation, and - well, he’ll get to that when he does.This second plan is objectively ill-advised, appallingly open-ended, and at some point will probably require alcohol on his part. And it is very much the one he goes with.





	A Very Brief Dubiously Canon Compliant Theory of Montgomery's Introduction to Bad Science

Moreau first strikes Montgomery as exceedingly intimidating. Though smaller in stature and generally appearing scaled down in most ways in relation to Montgomery himself, he takes up the room. It's impossible not to see him, and he is split between the immediate desire to know more of him, already designing questions to ask of his lecture to draw his attention out of the assembly of other doctoral hopefuls - and the compulsion to run, to duck out of the hall and never come back, avoid Moreau entirely for possibly the rest of his life.

Then he pauses in his presentation to brush back a lock of graying hair behind his ear with the end of his pointer, and Montgomery feels the choice taken from him, because he'll be damned if he does not want to witness this mannerism again, this and a thousand like it. Possibly for the rest of his life.

Dammit.

\---

The lecture concludes within the hour, forcing Montgomery to make some kind of decision, any decision - or it would have, had Moreau not collected his things with exceptional speed and disappeared through some exit at the front before the thought could even occur to Montgomery to do, well, anything. 

He curses himself, stuffing his notebook into his bag and exiting the hall as casually as possible for someone who is very much in a rush. The hallway is largely empty, giving him the opportunity to search as subtle as the situation allows for the aged scientist, but he is nowhere to be found. It is like he has vanished into thin air, and Montgomery curses himself again.

\---

Defeated, Montgomery makes a tactical retreat to Gower Street and the comfort of its many familiarities. Patrons of the establishments are fewer at this time in the evening, but not scarce, and Montgomery thinks that he may find a friendly face yet and propose a night at the pub for whoever will have his company.

This thought is still in his mind when he passes by the front of one of the little coffeehouses breaking the type of the street and is taken entirely by surprise by the figure of Doctor Moreau leaned over a book pencil in hand at an otherwise unoccupied table near the window. Montgomery goes unnoticed for the moment, and is free to watch him as he works. 

Moreau is different in this setting, subtle enough, but some of the lines in his face appear softer here, without being conscious of an audience. His shoulders are somewhat more relaxed as well, and he would almost appear younger if not for the streaks of gray even more closely visible here separated by but a pane of glass and a few feet of ground.

Having been suddenly presented with a second opportunity to do - something, anything, Montgomery considers a series of options. 

The first of which is to walk away - the reasonable, probably best-advised course of action when faced with a complete stranger, even an older, unreasonably attractive one with a very specific interest in the cutting edges of medical surgery and transplantation grafting. He may yet see him again, anyway, and making an ass of himself (a distinct possibility) is a fear that makes itself known quite vocally.

The other, more tempting option, is the same that occurred to him in the lecture hall: to approach him, make conversation, and - well, he’ll get to that when he does.

This second plan is objectively ill-advised, appallingly open-ended, and at some point will probably require alcohol on his part. And it is very much the one he goes with.

Blessedly without being noticed, Montgomery steps inside the coffeehouse largely without thinking and approaches Moreau’s table, an introduction only half formed in his mind when the aging doctor looks up from his book, pencil still in-hand, with an expression of half-absent confusion.

“May I sit with you?” he half-blurts.

Moreau looks him once-over. “Have we met?”

“Of sorts.” Montgomery gestures vaguely. “Your, ah, lecture this afternoon.”

Moreau looks considering for a moment. “I don’t remember your face, but again, I remember few from these events.” He closes the book and sets it aside, and somewhere in this is an invitation that Montgomery accepts, pulling away the chair opposite him.

“Do you often pursue aging lecturers outside the classroom for conversation, or am I an exception?” Moreau inquires evenly, and Montgomery has to repress a laugh that ends up somewhere closer to a snort half-swallowed.

“Well,” he recovers, “It's not so often that I find them exceedingly interesting.”

Moreau raises a single gray eyebrow. “Do you have an interest in surgery, Mister…?”

“Montgomery. Thomas.” 

“Mister Montgomery,” Moreau completes, looking at him expectantly.

He hesitates. “I am not myself a surgeon, nor have I thought myself inclined to it personally on several grounds, but - “ Montgomery attempts to gather his thoughts. “Academically, the science is extremely interesting. Especially your lecture this evening, sir.”

This earns him the slightest of smiles, nothing more than an upward quirk of the corner of Moreau’s mouth, but the strange, warm - _idiotic_ \- happiness that keeps threatening to overwhelm Montgomery surges in the confines of his chest more so than at any other point this evening. He wishes he had bought a drink from the counter so that he might be able to occupy his hands in some way and have an excuse to look away from this man.

“As flattering as that is,” Moreau says. “Might I ask what you are studying, if not this?”

Montgomery waves a hand slightly. “General practice, cuts and bruises, your average illnesses and ill-fates. Nothing so ambitious.”

To his relief, Moreau does not seem disappointed. “A fair study,” he says, taking a drink from his glass. “England is always in need of more doctors.”

“And England will always need its surgeons.”

Moreau actually laughs slightly at this (making the overly excitable beast in Montgomery’s chest leap with delight). “Yes, I should hope so.”

There is a beat of silence between them in which Montgomery can feel Moreau looking at him, not quite assessing but not without some degree of inspection, as Montgomery finds somewhere near the fireplace to direct his gaze. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips, rapid and warm.

“Do you find yourself on Gower Street often, Mister Montgomery?” Moreau asks after a moment. “Or were you here by chance?”

Montgomery freezes.

He is not unaware of the reputation being a frequenter of Gower Street earns him. Moreau’s question is loaded - but, Montgomery also notes, Moreau is also here, aware of the connotations, likely not drawn to linger at a coffeehouse by virtue of good food and drink alone. The odds are, for once, not stacked against him, but anxiety rises in his throat nevertheless.

“I find that - what I mean to say is - ah, yes,” he struggles, aware of the flush beginning to color his cheeks. “Yes, I am a regular.”

Moreau doesn't have time to respond - and Montgomery doesn't have time to read his reaction - before the clock near the counter begins to chime a six o'clock toll.

Moreau looks at his wristwatch almost as if in reflex, confirming the time, and an expression of something close to hesitance comes over him for a brief moment. 

“Do you have a prior engagement?” Montgomery says, trying to sound and look less nervous (shaky, desperate) than he feels, which only gets worse as Moreau picks up his book and closes it.

“I don’t mix well with evening crowds in coffeehouses, I’ve found,” Moreau says offhandedly as he reaches for his bag. “Too many young academics too sure of themselves.” Montgomery suppresses a wince with mixed success, which doesn't go unnoticed by his companion. “Relax, Mister Montgomery,” he sighs. “If I thought you too brazen, I’d have dismissed you by now.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” Montgomery blurts, and Moreau freezes, his bag half-slung over a shoulder.

The silence stretches for a second, and Montgomery is certain he’s blown it, crossed that last little line into behaving like a fool - at the very least, behaving _brazenly_. He’s already constructing ways to back down, what to say to recover from this, when Moreau straightens, adjusts his bag on his shoulder, and moves to stand.

“Never much liked drinking in pubs,” he says, but not harshly, adjusting his shirt cuffs.

“My flat, then.” Montgomery stands as well now, hoping he looks less flustered than he feels.

Moreau gives him one last considering look, up and down, expression relaxed and unreadable. “Never much liked drinking, either,” he says finally, then meets his eye. “Where is your flat?”

\---

Moreau moves through Montgomery’s living space like he belongs there. Beyond shame or humility, he doesn't wait for him to follow him to the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. In the time it takes for Montgomery to place his keys on the hook, Moreau is already out of sight and down the hallway.

He feels like his head is swimming. Blood is rushing in a lot of different directions, coupled with the distinct feeling that this cannot be real, because he doesn't do this, doesn't just pick up some person he barely knows and bring them back to his flat, let alone someone like Moreau who has no business socializing with him anyway, never mind - well. Never mind _this._

In a way, Moreau has spared him from the moment of awkwardness he was anticipating when they arrived, but an entirely new one is looming as Montgomery lingers in the hallway. Should he follow? Should he give him time? He forces himself to shove away the thoughts buzzing around his head, takes a breath, and steps down the short hall and into his bedroom.

It's gone from late afternoon to true evening now, and the only light coming in from the window is weak and tinted with orange, the setting sun obscured partially by clouds. The effect it has casts Moreau in shadows that cut deeply, almost more of a silhouette of a man perched on the end of his bed frame, clothes draped over the back of Montgomery's desk chair in a neat stack, bag discarded somewhere nearby. He's leaned back with his arms braced on the edge, legs crossed at the ankle as he takes in Montgomery’s room, facing away from him.

“Undress,” he says absently, between a request and an order but closer to the latter, and Montgomery shivers slightly. He forces himself to be patient, move slower than he wants to, taking his time with the buttons on his shirt, toeing out of his shoes and socks, piece by piece dismantling the uniform of the day and trying not to stare. He discards all of it in a bin next to the dresser, save his shoes, which go at its foot. 

Moreau doesn't watch him as he does all this, but nevertheless seems to know when he is undressed. Without speaking, he stands, walks around the frame of the mattress to its head, and pulls back the blankets to the foot before situating himself atop it, sitting knees bent with his back to the headboard, giving Montgomery his first clear view of the man now naked in his bed.

“Is there a problem?” Moreau says, the hint of a challenge in his voice. The statement, however, betrays what can only be some level of fear that Montgomery is about to reject him, and more than anything else, Montgomery still (completely, desperately) wants him.

Montgomery walks around to the side of the bed at a measured pace, stopping before him. He places a hand gently at the juncture of Moreau’s jaw.

“There is no problem at all,” he says, barely above a whisper. “May I kiss you?”

The same twitch of a smile appears on Moreau’s face as he reaches to draw Montgomery up onto the bed and subsequently over himself as well until the younger man is kneeling before him, and Montgomery presses his lips to Moreau’s with a fervor.

Moreau is surprisingly yielding, despite the hand at Montgomery’s jaw and the small of his back. The kiss becomes more languid, the drag of soft skin on skin taking full priority for the moment. He tastes faintly like coffee, Montgomery notes. 

They eventually break apart, breathing heavy, overwhelmed. “You may touch whatever you like,” Moreau says into the crook of Montgomery’s neck.

“I'm afraid I am… inexperienced, in cases like yours,” Montgomery admits. “If you don't mind indulging my curiosity.”

Moreau’s expression is invisible to him in this position, but Montgomery gets the distinct feeling that he is being smirked at. “Then you had best make yourself acquainted, yes?” he says teasingly before biting gently at the soft juncture between Montgomery’s neck and shoulder, making him shudder.

Montgomery slowly extricates himself from Moreau and sits back on his heels to take him in once again. Despite the low and weakening light, Montgomery can still make out the details of the other man's body laid out before him. He runs a hand from the dip of his collar bone, over the delicate swell of his breast and the curve of his stomach and hip. A dusting of fine hair covers his thighs and grows thicker in the dip of his groin, the same dark greying brown as the rest, and soft to the touch. 

Moreau tilts a knee to the side while Montgomery watches, and reaches down to drag two fingers through the folds of his cunt, exposing the delicate pink skin as he slowly touches himself, almost showing off. Montgomery can feel Moreau watching him, silently challenging.

Entranced, he slips a hand between Moreau’s thighs, not quite tentative, but gentle nonetheless, and Moreau draws his own hand away. The soft folds of Moreau’s cunt part around Montgomery’s exploratory fingers, wet with slick already. Montgomery traces a path up to the hard nub of his clit, circling it when Moreau makes a soft noise at the touch. 

After a moment, Moreau breathes the instructions “Softer, less direct,” and Montgomery blushes slightly, but complies, and Moreau groans low in his throat, laying back and throwing an arm up over his eyes. He feels Moreau’s hips moving rhythmically as he grinds himself against him, changing the angle until he's gasping with each rocking motion.

Montgomery takes in the sight of him, spread on his back with Montgomery between his legs, what feels like miles of exposed skin on display. He can't quite see Moreau’s face, but he's letting out little gasps and hitched breaths that he can't mistake. Moreau’s free hand almost absently moves to his right breast, pulling at the dark pink nipple until it is hard under his touch. He's beautiful, Montgomery thinks.

He presses a kiss to the inside of Moreau’s thigh and slips his fingers down to curl inside him, making Moreau cry out quietly, bucking slightly under him. The second thrust of his fingers inside him is smoother, slicker, and he is able to establish a slow rhythm that's making Moreau groan aloud. 

Encouraged, Montgomery fucks into him with more force, pushing his fingers into him deeper than before. The frame of the bed creaks worryingly with each thrust, but holds fine. 

It is a surprise to Montgomery when Moreau suddenly reaches down to grasp at his wrist, drawing his fingers from inside him and sitting up more or less in his lap. Montgomery slips his arms around his waist reflexively as Moreau insinuates himself into his space again, grinding himself down slowly against Montgomery’s hard cock.

“Lie back,” he says. “I want to ride you.” When Montgomery hesitates, he pushes him back gently but firmly until he is sitting up on his elbows. “I am sterile, Montgomery, relax,” he assures him as he settles over his waist. Montgomery watches him raptly as Moreau grasps the base of his cock, one hand braced on his chest, and lowers himself onto him in a smooth motion with a low groan.

The sudden velvety heat of him around him takes the breath from Montgomery's lungs. His hands fly to Moreau’s waist, clutching him desperately as the man rocks gently on him, adjusting to the feeling. 

He shifts to put weight on his hands braced on either side of Montgomery's chest as he begins to fuck himself on the length of Montgomery’s cock, easing the strain of the position. The last of the dying light from the window catches him again from the front, coloring his pale skin and the tips of his hair with golden light.

Apparently satisfied, Moreau suddenly snaps his hips down hard, plunging Montgomery's cock as deep inside him as he can and forcing harsh gasps from the both of them. Montgomery feels himself rocking up to meet each hard thrust of Moreau’s as the man takes his pleasure above him.

Moreau’s skin under his hands is damp with sweat, and almost hot to the touch. His hair has begun to stick to his brow, and he pushes it away behind his ear with one hand.

Then Moreau winces slightly, stilling for a moment, breathing hard as he tries to relieve some pressure on his hip from the position. Montgomery moves his hands from where they rest on Moreau’s hips to allow this, brushing light strokes up and down the length of his thighs and watching with mild concern as the older man recovers from the strain of moving himself atop him.

“May I…” He hesitates, and Moreau looks down at him expectantly, one leg still half-extended in discomfort.

“Do you have a suggestion, Montgomery?” Moreau’s voice is rough from exertion, probably less put-together than he would like. It is extremely endearing.

“Let me.”

They slowly disentangle, Moreau lifting himself off Montgomery’s cock with some effort before letting himself fall to the side as Montgomery rearranges them with Moreau on his back, knees apart and lifted slightly to make room for him between them. 

Montgomery peppers kisses up Moreau’s chest from stomach, pausing at the edge of his ribs, his hardened nipples, the taste of his skin under his lips. As he presses him back, Moreau hooks his legs over Montgomery’s waist and draws him nearer.

When Montgomery breaches him again, Moreau groans, arching off the bed slightly. His chest where Montgomery is cradling him is slick with sweat, skin hot to the touch. When he moves again, Moreau grips him hard at the waist, nails threatening to do real damage as he rocks gently with Montgomery’s thrusts. His eyes are screwed shut, biting his lip, face turned away from Montgomery and into the soft side of a pillow, but he can still make out the soft sounds almost forced out of him each time Montgomery fucks into him.

The enthusiasm with which the older man is rocking back into him encourages Montgomery to be more forceful, and Moreau’s entire body spasms for a moment when he bottoms out hard inside him, a desperate cry forcing itself past Moreau’s lips at the same time that Montgomery hisses out a low curse, the feeling almost overwhelming for a moment. Moreau is hot and slick around him, pressure coming in waves as he tightens around his cock in pleasure.

Montgomery moves from grasping his chest to his hips, pulling him back into him as he shortens his thrusts, and Moreau writhes beneath him. His legs are shaking where they’re wrapped around his waist, and Moreau has released his grip on his waist to throw one arm over his face, the other pushed back against the headboard to brace himself enough to push back into him. The sounds he’s making are almost pained, and a jolt of worry shoots through Montgomery.

“Are you alright?” he asks, slowing almost to a stop, and Moreau half-winces, shoving himself further onto his cock in protest, grinding down.

“I’m not hurt, Montgomery, please - “ he gasps, cutting himself off. “I need - “

He cries out again as Montgomery thrusts into him hard and fast, almost worryingly loud now, given the proximity of other flats in the building, but not enough for him to care. Moreau clutches at him desperately, and Montgomery covers one of his hands with his own just below Moreau’s knee. It’s surprisingly intimate, given the situation.

Montgomery feels the exact moment that Moreau comes, feels him tighten around him as he arches off the bed with a cry. The feeling is enough to push him over the edge as well, shoved deep inside him. He tries his best not to collapse atop Moreau, catching himself with a braced arm and carefully pulling out after a moment. Moreau groans slightly at the loss, still breathing hard, but moves obligingly to the side to allow Montgomery to lie beside him, an arm hooked over his waist.

They stay like that a moment, exhausted in companionable silence. The light is gone from the room now, save for what meager moonlight filters in from the window through the cloud cover, but Montgomery can still make out the lines and contours of Moreau beside him, completely relaxed under his touch. His eyes are closed, and some of the creases in his face seem lighter. 

Montgomery feels the same sensation in his chest from that afternoon in the hall, the same one he felt when catching Moreau at the coffeehouse, warm and tight with the hint of being ill-advised, but strong enough that it cannot be ignored. 

“Will you stay here tonight?” Montgomery inquires quietly, and Moreau makes a soft noise low in his throat, eyes still closed.

After a moment, he answers, “Bit of a risk, Montgomery.”

“I don’t mind it.”

Moreau cracks one eye open to look over at him, taking in his expression, which Montgomery can only guess as some form of earnest. “Alright,” he says finally. “I’ll stay.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> This Scientist is Trans and There is NOTHING You Can Do About It, H. G. Wells.


End file.
